weary memories i can always see
by vega-de-la-lyre
Summary: "Did you miss me?" Arthur/Eames; warning for implied character death.


Eames squints down the scope of his rifle then looks away over the barrel down the cliff into the clearing below. He is standing sentry-duty on their latest mark, crouched down against the trunk of a pine; it is furiously uncomfortable, kneeling here in the bushes and the dirt, but the mark is taking his sweet time coming up with the goods and they've decided non-interference is the best policy on this case, that he should sit this one out. Of course, they are just worried about his mental fitness for the job; they are worried that his frazzled nerves won't be able to sustain his projections.

He doesn't disagree.

So wait here he shall.

"You know, the scope on that gun is there for a reason," he hears a voice above him say.

Eames freezes.

After a moment, the voice above him chuckles and goes on. "Yes, I'm still here," he says. "You can look, you know."

"But I don't want to," Eames says, and he does anyway.

"Hello," Arthur says. He is standing over Eames, his hands in his pockets, the crisp tailoring of his suit incongruous against the trees and brush. He smiles gently, rocking back on his heels. "How've you been?"

"Oh, Christ," Eames says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not this, please, not this."

"Afraid so," Arthur says. He nods down at the gun in Eames's hand. "I meant that, you know."

Out of patience with this whole façade, Eames stands in one smooth furious movement, tugging his scarf away from his throat. "I've got better aim without it," he says. "Some of us work better with instinct than technology, Arthur. But then, you've always known that about me, haven't you? And you would anyway. Because _you're not real_."

"True," Arthur says. "But then, I did before, too, didn't I? You always thought you did so well at hiding your true self from the world, but I could always read you like a book."

"Fair enough," Eames admits. He moves to lean his rifle against the trunk of the tree but Arthur takes it from him; Eames jerks his hand away like he's been shocked.

"What, you don't want to touch?" Arthur says, amused. "Funny, you never used to be a hands-off kind of guy." He steps forward, reaching out a hand; Arthur's fingers ghost across Eames's chest and Eames leans back against the tree and closes his eyes, concentrating on the bite of the bark under his shoulderblades, thinking that he should congratulate Ariadne on the strength of her illusions. Better that than fixate on the feel of Arthur's fingertips on him, because if he does he will never be able to pull himself out of this moment.

"Did you miss me?" Arthur whispers. His hand curls into the lapel of Eames's jacket possessively, and he leans in close, close enough that if he were real, Eames would be able to feel Arthur's breath on his cheek.

But he can't, because Arthur isn't.

Eames still doesn't open his eyes. "With all my heart," he says, every muscle in his face and neck so taut it aches. "But would you please leave me alone, my love? I have work to do."

"But you don't want me to go, do you?" Arthur says, and his lips touch Eames's, and Eames can feel Arthur's mouth curve into a smile. "You want me here with you always."

Eames's heart is pounding so hard and frantic he thinks he's going to be sick. "Yes," he breathes finally, his tongue a traitor to his brain's better wishes, and Arthur kisses him finally, vicious and wet, and he sighs into Arthur's open mouth, and then he opens his eyes and Arthur is gone.

He stares into the empty space in front of him blankly. The drumming in his ears subsides slowly, enough for him to hear the team marching through the woods towards Eames, thwacking away at the waist-high tangle of shrubs and ferns.

"Eames," Yusuf calls. They are only marginally brighter patches of green-and-brown camo among the foliage to Eames's unfocused eyes. "Come on. We're moving out."

Eames touches his chest and his stomach with numbed fingers to assure himself that he's all still here and intact, he hasn't been scorched to pieces from Arthur's touch.

"Yeah," he says after a minute. "I'm coming."

They pass him by, Cobb giving him a curious look without comment.

But still he can't move.

Ariadne pauses and looks back over her shoulder. Her face is white and tired, hair pulled sharply away from her face; she has aged, endlessly aged since Arthur's been – since Arthur's been gone.

"Eames," she says. "Did I see - ?"

"No," Eames says shortly. "You didn't."

And then he pushes himself away from the tree and slings his rifle over his shoulder without a look back.

* * *

This is the first time.

(It is not the last.)


End file.
